


Made to Your Measure

by Wildgoosery



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, some people have a suit fetish I'm not saying who, ttazce2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: Kravitz's suit is bespoke in every sense. Taako learns what that means, exactly, and tries a few things on for size, some of them more comfortable than others.





	Made to Your Measure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2impostors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2impostors/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, Lyd. I certainly enjoyed writing it.

The bed is an absolute wreck. As is Taako, draped across the mattress at a haphazard diagonal, one leg dangling over the edge. Waiting for Kravitz to get out of the shower. Staring at the tidy stack of Kravitz's work clothes -- suit and shirt and all the rest -- draped over the back of the chair at his desk.

Things are still a little strange between them. Taako's _world_ is strange, now, remade and revealed, and not entirely reassembled. Not properly, comfortably put back together, and maybe never will be. 

But it's better than it was at first. Easier. And Taako can spend an afternoon reading in Kravitz's bed -- a bed that had not been there to begin with, a bed for _them_ \-- without it feeling like he's hiding from someplace else.

It's pleasant to wake up somewhere newly familiar, to kiss someone goodbye and know they'll come back to him at the end of the day. He likes that it keeps happening, over and over; likes to be reassured without having to ask at all, to let this pattern of predictable affection settle on his shoulders. He's trying domesticity on for size, just to see how it fits. It's nice.

Kravitz is nice. Kravitz called to say he was running late due to an unscheduled exorcism, and stepped through his portal an hour or so later smelling of ozone and iron, carrying two pork pies and a dusty bottle of wine. Kravitz smiled as Taako tore into his dinner, and kept their glasses full, and talked about the day and all he'd done with it. Kravitz tasted blackberry red when Taako leaned across the table to kiss him, fingers already plucking at the buttons of his cream-colored shirt.

Kravitz can melt this particular suit into smoke, but Taako prefers to do the unwrapping himself. He enjoys the feel of cool cotton and wool under his palms, likes to decide on the pace of how placket and hem and waist all slide along the planes of Kravitz's chest, down his arms and his thighs, over the knobs of wrists and ankles. Handfuls of fine cloth all dropped to the floor, a disordered heap discarded and forgotten as he presses his mouth and his fingers to Kravitz's spell-warmed skin. As he's done many times, now. As he did tonight.

He dragged Kravitz down onto the unmade bed, rucked up his skirt and pushed Kravitz's head down between bare thighs. Keeps him there, greedy for his hands and his mouth, for the unflinching slide of his throat, for his obvious pleasure in being wanted. In being used, and not gently.

Kravitz never complains about Taako's gleeful disrespecting of his uniform, such as it is, but once Taako released him from service that night he discreetly collected it from the floor, folded it along its careful creases, and hung it over the back of his chair. Then he slipped away to the bathroom to clean up the aftermath of Taako's deliberately poor aim, and of a day spent elbows-deep in necromancy. Kravitz insists he can feel the latter on his skin, itchy with an idle malevolence that only a hot shower can pound away. Taako supposes it's a reaper thing. Or a Kravitz thing, maybe -- even with his own sister drawn into the Raven Queen's service, it's hard to pin down the boundary between one and the other.

Now, Taako rolls off the bed and onto his feet. Stretches loudly and pads across the well-worn rug to the desk, the chair and the folded clothes.

Lounging around in Kravitz's shirts is a fond pastime of Taako's, often indulged, but he's only ever borrowed the personal time variety. It's not that Kravitz's work clothes are off limits, exactly, but there's a vague sense of their being somehow _different_. And so he feels a little daring, a little like a trespasser, when he lifts the shirt off the chair, and unfolds it, and holds it up by the shoulders. 

The cotton is soft and smells pleasantly of Kravitz. It feels unexpectedly weighty, somehow too cool, as he slides his arms into the sleeves.

"Taako?"

His head snaps up. The collar of the shirt hangs between his shoulder blades. Kravitz stands in the doorway of the bathroom, a hasty towel around his middle, dripping a puddle onto the floor.

Heat rushes up Taako's neck, over his cheeks and out to the tips of his ears. "Hey, babe," he says, not quite managing casual. And when Kravitz doesn't immediately reply, he moves to shrug the shirt off again, at once dead certain he's not doing anything _wrong_ , not at all, and yet undeniably feeling like he's been caught at something.

"Wait, you don't..." Kravitz licks his lips. "You can put it on."

Taako pauses, the shirt at his elbows. "Oh yeah?"

"I don't mind," Kravitz says. And it's true that he doesn't _look_ like he minds. The opposite, if anything.

Taako purses his lips. Says, "You don't mind."

Kravitz swallows. "No."

Taako watches Kravitz, keen and curious, as he settles the shirt onto his shoulders; slowly fastens the buttons, all slick mother of pearl. He watches as Kravitz's eyes go round. As his mouth falls open.

"So this is like, _deffo_ some kinda fetish," Taako says, and smirks at Kravitz's fluster.

Kravitz's grip on the towel tightens. "Not...in the way you're thinking."

"I'm thinking you like what you see, babe," says Taako with a slow roll of hips, weight shifting from one bare leg to the other. Keenly aware of just how high the shirt's hem hits his thighs.

"Well... _yes_ , but..." Kravitz looks down at the puddle on the tile around his feet, and runs a hand back over his shower-slicked hair. "Mm."

The details of the last few minutes shift and slot together. And Taako asks, "Did you come running out here because I put on your shirt?"

"Ah." Kravitz laughs a little, unfathomably nervous. "Yes."

Taako frowns at the clothes still hanging on the back of the chair. "Is there like...an _alarm_ on these or-?"

"No," Kravitz says, mortified. "No, that would be...I trust you, of course, I just wasn't expecting..." He sighs and gestures to the towel. "May I get properly dried off before-"

"No. Tell me why you're being weird about this."

"Well, they're..." Kravitz nervously pulls at an earring. "They're my work clothes, aren't they?"

"Uh huh." Taako drags a finger up and down the stitching of the shirt's placket, which makes Kravitz shiver in a way that's very satisfying.

"I can transmute them into light," Kravitz says, slowly. Clearly certain that Taako is fucking with him. Which, to be fair, Taako absolutely is, just not in the way that Kravitz seems to think.

"Can you do that while I'm wearing them?" Taako drawls, which wins him the most pronounced reaction yet: Kravitz rocking back on his heels like he's been physically shoved in the chest.

"Probably, but..." Kravitz laughs again, fluttery. A little manic. "They're my _work_ clothes. From...from _work._ "

"Sure."

"Much in the same way as...as my _scythe_ ," Kravitz says, hushed, although there's no one there to overhear them.

Taako hitches up an eyebrow. "Listen, babe, if you're trying to tell me I'm gonna get reaped if I wear your shit, you're kinda burying the lede here."

"No!" Kravitz blows out a breath -- one of his cuter affectations of mortality -- and readjusts the towel around his hips. "Can we sit down at least?"

Taako's other eyebrow arches to match the fist. He turns Kravitz's desk chair around, clothes and all, and sits facing the bed. Kravitz pads across the room to perch on the edge of the mattress, and crosses his legs. And Taako realizes abruptly that he's still holding the towel, in part, to hide what must be a serious-business boner, which is interesting for all kinds of reasons beyond the obvious.

"So," Kravitz says, hands clasped in his lap.

Taako leans back in the chair, legs splayed just wide enough to be sure of a good view. "Mmm hmmmmmmm?"

"So," Kravitz says again. "My body is a construct provided by-"

"The Raven Queen, yeah, my dude we have had this conversation."

"I'm able to alter certain aspects of my appearance," Kravitz goes on, determined. "I can shift into a more frightening form. I can dematerialize entirely. Create and possess golems."

Taako plays with the buttons of one cuff, watching Kravitz's mouth twitch as he rolls them between his fingers. "I'm aware," he says, "of the shit I saw you do within the first, like, _hour_ of meeting you."

"And I perform my duties in the field," Kravitz says, "while wearing _those_ clothes."

"Listen, babe, we covered this," Taako says, genuinely lost. "I've seen you poof your suit, like...this isn't news, you-"

"It's a part of my construct," Kravitz blurts in a rush.

Taako frowns. "What, like the actual suit? Or-"

"All of it," Kravitz says. "The suit, the shirt, socks, everything. Every single thing, it's all..." He swallows again. "I realize it's a bit off-putting, but-"

"Wait, wait, you're telling me that..." Taako looks down at himself -- the ivory cotton, the buttons, the seams and stitches. He gestures to it all and says, "This is _part_ of you? Like literally-"

"Yes," Kravitz says. Unfolds his legs and then crosses them again, reversed. "Literally."

"Can you..." Taako pinches a fold of fabric. "Can you feel this?"

"No," Kravitz says, stiff but maybe a shade less anxious. "It's. Well, it's still a shirt, it hasn't any nerves. But I'm..." He bites his lip, considering. "I'm _aware_ of it. Where it is. How it...how it moves."

"So, you felt me pick it up," Taako says, fascinated and not troubling to hide it. He isn't often genuinely surprised by the arcane, now that all his once-forgotten wanderings have been folded back into himself.

"It would be more accurate to say I was conscious of its movement," Kravitz says, "but. Yes."

"Conscious of its movement," Taako says.

"Acutely."

"And now?"

Kravitz's nostrils flare. " _Acutely_."

Taako lifts his arms in lazy arcs and weaves his fingers behind his head, the shirt riding up past the tops of his thighs. Leaving no mystery as to his own interest. "Tell me," he says. "Paint me a word picture."

"I..." Kravitz's eyes dart between Taako's face and his groin. Settle on the former. "I can feel the shape of the fabric. Not...your body, exactly, but how the shirt is supported by it. How it...how it moves when you move. When you breathe. It's..." Kravitz's eyes wander; snap back. "Intimate."

"Intimate," Taako says, lingering over each syllable. 

"And intense."

"In a good way, or...?"

"Yes," Kravitz rasps. "Yes, Taako, with you it's...it's very good."

Taako runs the tip of his tongue over his teeth; turns all of this over in his head while he watches Kravitz's performance of breath, dishonest in function but sincere in how it quickens.

Everything about Kravitz is a performance -- a "construct," as he prefers to say. Based on the living man he once was but entirely manufactured, built from magic and the will of a goddess. Taako knows this, however much the consequential details sometimes sneak up on him. Of course Kravitz is soul-bound to his fucking suit. Of _course_ he is.

It's strange, sure, but so is Taako really. So is the entirety of what's left of the IPRE -- all of them bound together, pulling each other back from death, back through time, again and again. All of them constructs, dissolved to light and woven back into their own past selves, the same bruises remade a hundred times over, a hundred scraped knuckles and strained shoulders, a hundred hangovers from cheap beer he drank a century ago. Bound to a ship instead of a suit, all of the magic and none of the will. No intent. At least Kravitz was built for a reason.

"You're being very quiet," Kravitz says -- a fair worry, as Taako's so rarely silent.

"I'm considering my options," Taako says.

"It's weird," Kravitz says. "I know it's weird."

"It is," Taako agrees. He lays his hands on his thighs. "Ditch the towel."

"What?"

"Sit back against the wall. Close your eyes."

Kravitz looks down at his lap. "I'm-"

"Maybe you didn't hear me." Taako keeps his tone light, but they both know this cadence. They know what it means.

Slowly Kravitz stands up from the bed; unwraps the towel, eyes averted. His erection bobs as he walks past Taako to hang the towel in bathroom, and Taako watches his ass appreciatively as he returns to the bed, crosses the mattress on his knees, settles where he was instructed to, propped against the headboard. His legs folded up close to him. 

Their eyes connect for a moment, his round and blown with obvious lust. And then he closes them, obedient, dark lashes laid in soft arcs below his brows. Chest moving and lips parted. His pulse a visible thrum along his neck.

He draws a sharp breath as Taako gets to his feet. "No peeking," Taako says, sing-song, and moves to stand beside the chair. Picks up the next item in the queue of clothes draped over the back -- a pair of boxers in deep navy blue. Taako holds them out in front of him, taut between his hands, and watches Kravitz's mouth fall further open. Listens to the guttering rasp of Kravitz's breath.

"I've picked up this exact fucking underwear before," Taako says, low. Teasing.

"That was different."

"Oh?" Taako wiggles them a little in the air, eliciting a gasp. "How's that?"

"I know what you're planning to do with them."

"Cant imagine what you're on about," Taako says, and folds the boxers in half down the middle. "I was just gonna put all this away, you know. Help with the chores."

"Taako..."

"Unless there's something else you want?"

"You know perfectly well..." Kravitz grimaces, eyes still closed. "Taako, _please_."

"Please what?"

"Please..." Taako slips a hand up the front of the shirt and Kravitz lets out a shuddering sigh. "Oh gods, Taako, please, I can't-"

"Shhhhhhh," Taako murmurs. "Shh, babe, it's all right." He bends at the waist, shifts his weight to one foot as he lifts the other. "I know."

He watches Kravitz carefully as he pulls the underwear up his legs, languid and unhurried, until the elastic waistband settles at his hips. Looser on him than on Kravitz but tenting dramatically at the front. He can't resist smoothing a palm over that hot swell, an impulse that wins him a startled moan from across the room.

Kravitz's hands shift on his thighs, and Taako clicks his tongue. Not yet.

And so begins this odd reversal of his usual project, reassembling all the many parts of what he'd earlier discarded -- the elaborate kit of a reaper's uniform. Sits on the chair to roll socks up his shins, and fasten garters above the meat of his calves, and hook the socks in place. Stands again to step into trousers, virgin wool lined in satin that slides deliciously over his skin. Tucks in the tails of the shirt and fastens up the fly. Slips the soft leather belt through hand-stitched loops, pulls it several notches past the use-worn fit of Kravitz's thicker torso, and settles the buckle above the obvious curve of his erection. Slips each of a pair of sleeve garters up past his elbows, to the dips below his biceps. Tugs and tucks the sleeves themselves until they're gathered in soft folds above the garters, and the cuffs hang to just above the meat of his palms when his arms are at his sides.

Displayed on the bed, transfixed despite his blindness, Kravitz is gorgeously devastated. He leans forward away from the headboard as Taako adjusts hemlines and fastenings. Sits with hands gripping his legs.

The tie is tricky. Taako hasn't often knotted one for his own benefit, however many times he's looped them around Kravitz neck with his tongue in Kravitz's mouth. Has done so with this one, a narrow stripe of black, charcoal threads woven into a pattern of overlapping feathers. Taako draws it through his thumb and forefinger, deliberately lewd, and chuckles at the clunk of Kravitz's skull as he tilts back his head, the muscles in his forearms standing out, fingers pressing divots into his skin.

Taako flips up the starched collar; lays the tie smoothly into the crease and adjusts the dangling ends. Loops it into a tidy triangular knot, one finger pressing a divot just below.

The oxfords, at once too wide and too short, are left beside the door. Tie tack and lapel pins are retrieved from their bowl on the desk and fastened into place. Kravitz is wearing his rings and earrings, the beads braided into his hair. A heavy bracelet, too wide to sit above Taako's narrower hands, is impulsively fastened around his ankle instead. Kravitz moans out loud as he bends to pull up the cuff of one pant leg, foot on the seat of the chair, trousers and underwear pulled tight across his ass. 

At last, the jacket. Taako lifts it with uncharacteristic reverence, more aware than usual of how fine an object it is -- the careful tiny stitches, the smooth ink-black wool, the indigo lining with inner pockets hemmed in bands of blue silver. The seal of the Raven Queen's court, a circle of five feathers, has been embroidered in the lining below the left lapel, positioned to sit above Kravitz's heart. And now, above Taako's.

He shrugs into the jacket, conscious of his narrower shoulders, his compact rib cage and sharper angles. It doesn't fit at all, but he finds he doesn't much care. These are another man's clothes, made for a body and a profession very different from his own, but he finds he enjoys the weight of it -- all these thoughtful details chosen for someone else.

Someone who sits facing him now, mouth still open but chest abruptly still, breath having caught so completely as to be forgotten.

Taako cups the front of the trousers, and curls his fingers, and presses the fabric around the hard hot shape of himself. Kravitz's chest leaps with a sudden gasp.

"Gonna need you to stretch out those legs," Taako croons.

Kravitz does as he's told, and licks his lips again. "Can I-"

"No," Taako says, grinning. He takes a first step toward the bed. "How you holding up there, bubbeleh?"

"I'm..." Taako takes another step, and runs his thumbs under the folds of the lapels, and Kravitz moans a long pained, " _Gods_."

"Tell me," Taako says. Closer still.

Kravitz's hands flutter on his thighs until he presses them, palms down, into the mattress beside his hips. "It feels like I'm walking toward myself," he says. "Or like I'm holding you, somehow, like I'm...like you're holding me, and also yourself, only I'm _here_ and you're..." Taako reaches the foot of the bed; strokes himself again as he lifts one knee and sets it on the quilt. And Kravitz gasps, "You're so _hard_ ,"

"I am," Taako agrees. "And so are you? Funny that."

There's no elegant way to crawl across a bed, although Kravitz is obviously beyond caring. It's strange to have an audience who can feel his every movement but can't see his face, and Taako allows his smirk to falter -- to fall into something less calculated. Kravitz is beautiful, and Taako likes to look at him. Likes to watch how his jaw falls open, how his eyelids twitch in resistance to impulse, as Taako drags a light hand up one bare leg. Ghosts over the fine hairs on his shin, his thigh, as Taako shifts closer.

The clothes are thread and fabric to Taako, ill-fitting and ill-suited to what he has in mind. So much easier to hike up the hem of a skirt, or to fish himself out of linen capris. He could strip back out of all these layers and shove Kravitz down on his back and have a grand old time, unfettered.

He straddles Kravitz's lap, knees on the mattress to either side of trembling thighs. The cool satin lining on his skin is a mirror of the man before him. Or a shadow, maybe. A reminder of cool lips on his neck, the crook of his arm, the underside of his wrist.

"Gonna fuck up your suit," Taako purrs, arms sliding around Kravitz's neck as he grinds their hips together. Kravitz moans something starved and wordless and shoves his face against Taako's throat, hands on the mattress, all of him shaking with tension.

Kravitz kisses a line up Taako's neck. Whispers, "Can I?" into the hollow beneath his jaw.

"Yes," Taako says, and all at once there are hands shoved up the back of the jacket, hands pulling out the tails of the shirt, hands on his ribs and his chest, hands tugging at the belt buckle. A teasing chuckle hitches into a groan as Kravitz frees him from the trousers, and holds them both in one warm eager hand, and pulls Taako close with his other arm as he crushes their mouths together. Their teeth clicking in his eagerness, wet tongue and soft full lips and Taako's name, moaned in the breath-catching moments when they part.

Taako pushes him back against the headboard and leans in, their chests together, fingers pushed into damp hair and knees squeezing hips, as close as possible, as complete a surrounding as an elf of his build can manage. Taako is wrapped up in Kravitz twice over and wants to echo it back, amplified. Overwhelming. He wants to be too much.

Kravitz whines and strokes them both with stuttering eagerness, and comes through his fingers, up the front of his shirt and jacket and trousers. Hips bucking so fiercely that Taako is nearly thrown off, and Taako laughs with unguarded delight into Kravitz's mouth. Ruts against a slippery palm with hands cupping Kravitz's skull, thumbs along his sideburns, kissing him almost too hard, too long, until Taako is dizzy from the lack of air, from the smell of them together, Kravitz and soap and sex and damp wool. 

He comes, hard and hot, muffled by a pinch of Kravitz's skin between his teeth.

Afterward, he holds Kravitz against him. Breathes. Leans forward to thunk his brow into the headboard. "Fuck," he says, half a chuckle. Turns his head to kiss the curve of Kravitz's ear. "Holy _shit_."

Kravitz's grip is still so tight as to border on painful, fingertips dug into the jacket like pitons in a rock face. He mumbles something indistinct into Taako's neck.

Taako nips at an ear lobe, playful. "Didn't catch that."

Kravitz shifts just far enough to say, "I love you so much," his breath warm on Taako's skin.

A now-familiar tightness winds up in Taako's chest. Still new. Still strange. An exposed underbelly of a feeling that part of him would rather not have, the part that sometimes longs for armor and distance. A hardened feral shard of himself that's made so many of his choices, that kept him safe for so many years. Or a kind of safe, anyway. A brittle solitude.

He burrows under the fall of Kravitz's hair, and kisses him behind his ear, and says, "You too." Sighs at his own reflexive cowardice. "Baby, I love you, too."

"You're amazing," Kravitz whispers. "I love you. Taako, I _love_ you."

"Nerd," Taako murmurs, and nuzzles in closer. Warm arms around him, comfortably heavy. Lips on his clavicle pressing idle kisses along that swoop of bone. Taako leaning on Kravitz who leans against the wall, peacefully exhausted in this nest of disorder, the tangled bedding and rumpled clothes.

It's nice, Taako thinks.

A good fit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the [Candlenights Exchange](https://ttazce2017.tumblr.com) team for organizing this, and thanks especially to Lyd for inspiring me to new heights of fetishizing menswear.
> 
> \- [@Wildgoosery](https://twitter.com/wildgoosery)


End file.
